Fresh Water
by PLAIDunderpants
Summary: A long out-of-touch family member returns unexpectedly to the Venture compound; Brock makes a new lady friend, much to Mol's dismay; Hank and Dean discover the freedoms of college and work; and Rusty gains another unknown enemy. Set at end of season 3.


**Act One**

They were standard thugs, nothing more. The kind you promised a large bounty to, fully knowing they wouldn't survive to collect the payment. The kind stupid enough to believe they could gain everything they've ever wanted by completing the seemingly simplest of tasks. They were perfect hirelings: unquestioning, ignorant, stupid, and disposable. There were exactly three of them, each as similar in appearances to each other as an ant is to an elephant, but they encompassed the stereotypical thug group to the tee: The short, semi-good-looking boy whose tough exterior radiated with the menacing aura of a chihuahua; the tall, lean dude with long, clumpy, dirty-blonde hair that hadn't been washed in what smelled like years; and the heavy, ham-fisted tank who had only dreamed of being able to read a novel as well as he could swing a right-hook. Out of sheer boredom, he had dubbed them Bruiser, Hobo, and Tiny, respectively. As if it couldn't get any more cliché, they were all wearing dark, baggy clothes, and beanies, and they were loitering late at night in an alley lit only by a single lamp about thirty yards away. Even if he jumped down from this second floor balcony right now, the alley was so dimly lit that the men wouldn't see him.

It was actually kind of nice, this voyeuristic task. He wasn't here to fight or kill these men, who might even be lucky enough to collect their dues tonight. He was simply here to watch and observe. S.P.H.Y.N.X. had received an anonymous tip about this particular rendezvous the other day, but the data was so vague that they suspected some kind of trap. So, he was to go and to watch, but not to get involved unless necessary. So here he was, at midnight, watching these clueless jackasses from above, waiting for something to do. At least he had been able to talk his way out of having a partner for this task; the last two idiots almost got him killed because they were so inept.

Bruiser nervously shifted his weight back and forth. "When the fuck is he going to get here? He's almost a half hour late! We can't wait for him the entire night."

"Relax, will you?" Hobo shook his head. "Whining like a little bitch isn't going to make him get here faster." He stood calmly with his hands in his jacket pockets. Occasionally he'd bite at a finger nail or dig wax out of his ear, not necessarily in that order. Mostly he'd just been waiting patiently for some expected third party to arrive from the main street end of the alley.

"Easy for you to say," the other yapped. "You're not relying on this job to pay off debt collectors."

"Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you started gambling with money that wasn't yours."

Tiny said nothing. He stood there, arms crossed, with a glazed expression in his eyes, clearly bored from the inaction. This had been the longest conversation the three had had since arriving in the alley almost an hour ago. So far, they hadn't given him much to work with as far as what was to be happening here. The only thing that ever really got their attention was the rare car that drove by on the nearby street; they always looked up expectantly, but each car would stop at the sign and then continue on its way.

_Click, click, click, click…_

The sound of footsteps echoed off the brick walls as a silhouetted figure approached from the opposite end of the alley, around the corner. His adrenaline rose, heightening his senses, as he watched the three men quietly hide deeper in shadows, bracing themselves for the possibility of confronting the stranger. Though the men couldn't see what was around the corner, he could, and he watched as the figure drew closer to them and to the single light in the corner of the alley. He knew it was a woman before she came fully into the light. This was hardly the time of night for a woman to be wandering through back alleys on her own; he just hoped the task was important enough that they'd let her pass without incident.

The woman turned the corner, entering the fullness of the alley light on the brick wall. He couldn't really see her face now that her back was to him, but she had long, naturally red hair and a flattering body frame. The bad part was the way she walked: her shoulders hunched and her eyes down, seemingly unaware of her surroundings; a recipe for disaster. He could sense the ill intention of the trio and sighed as they moved through the shadows to intervene with her path. Still, the knowledge that their expected contact might arrive any moment might keep them from doing any more than verbally harassing her. He decided to wait and watch.

When the lady finally noticed the men walking toward her, she tightened her grip on her small purse and her gait slowed to a stop. It was Bruiser that approached her first, flanked by Hobo on his left. He carried a smug smile on his face. "Well, here I was, complaining about our lack of company tonight, and God sees it fit to send an angel our way. I didn't realize He cared."

The woman said nothing, though she was clearly frightened. She took a few uneasy steps backward.

"Oh, please, don't be so shy," Hobo told her. "We only wanted to ask for a moment of your time." They continued to advance on her. She looked to her right, the direction she had come from, and stumbled a little in her high heels when she found Tiny impeding her way. The lady said something, though her voice was so quiet that he couldn't make out what she said. "C'mon, darling," the dirty man went on, his voice as greasy as his hair. "I'm sure you'd find me real nice if you spent some quality time with me."

"Yeah," Bruiser chimed in. "Real polite, like. We're just a little lonely right now. Might feel a bit better if you let me hold your hand." Close enough, he reached out and snatched her by the wrist. She tried to tug away from him, but his grip was too strong and she was too frightened to struggle.

"No! Please…" Her voice was still quiet like a mouse, but he managed to hear her that time. He shook his head. So much for getting through this encounter without a fight. Still, it had been a while since he got to feel the breaking of cartilage under his fist; perhaps it was finally time to have some fun after all this waiting and watching. He vaulted himself effortlessly over the railing of the balcony, landing in complete silence amongst the darkness. His bulk alone made this an almost supernatural feat, since he weighed a good two-hundred pounds of pure muscle, most of it in his upper body. He landed behind a few garbage containers to which the men seemed to be steering her.

Bruiser twisted the woman around and tried to shove her back towards the darkness behind the trash cans where he was hiding. Calmly, he stood and walked into the light, and she collided into him, crying out from the impact. She would have fallen if he hadn't caught her by the elbows and held her up against him.

He expected her to struggle, but she didn't. He was keeping his eyes on the men, so he couldn't see her face, but it felt like she actually relaxed in his grip. He was vaguely aware that she was looking at him, and her shaking body and sniffling told him that she was crying, albeit quietly. Her breath came in uneven gasps and he could feel her heart and her blood racing. His was racing, too. It had been a while since he'd been this close to a woman, let alone slept with one. The S.P.H.Y.N.X. lifestyle wasn't exactly conducive to his normal looseness with women. But he would think about that later; the opportunity would probably arise after this encounter, anyway.

The men shifted to a guarding stance. "Just who the fuck do you think you are, Mr. Hero?" It was Bruiser challenging him, puffing himself up like a cat would, or like those crazy fighting fish that try to look bigger than they actually are. He heard Tiny to his left crack his knuckles and chuckle, clearly happy that something interesting was happening. The woman jumped and hugged herself to his body at the sound of Bruiser's voice, and turned to look back at the three men.

Without taking his eyes off them, he calmly told the woman, "Go hide behind those containers. Don't come out until I'm done picking up the trash." She paused only long enough to glance at him and then back at the men before withdrawing from his support and rushing behind the trash cans. With her out of the way he turned his full attention toward the three harassers. "Aren't you boys up a little past your bedtimes? You're mothers must be worried sick."

"A fine time to be cracking jokes," Bruiser snarled at him. "You're outnumbered three to one."

He laughed out loud, amused. "Trust me, Bruiser, you don't count for much more than a half." It may as well be true; he towered a full two and a half feet over the little guy. "The only one of you who even comes close to matching me in size is Tiny over there, and he's all fat and no muscle." The low rumble that came from the large man told him that last comment wasn't appreciated.

Feeling a craving for a smoke, he reached down to the pack on his uniform belt that held his cigarettes, which happened to be next to his gun. The men gasped and immediately pulled their own firearms out of their pants. The alley rang with the sound of their handguns cocking and he thought he heard a gasp and the sound of rustled clothing from behind the bins, where the woman was. With their barrels trained on him, he casually opened the pack and took out a cigarette and his lighter. No one said a word as he put the stick in his mouth and held the flame to it, dragging in his breath until the paper caught fire. They kept their guns aimed at him while he returned the lighter and sucked in the sweet taste of the nicotine. Blowing out the smoke, he returned his attention to the matter at hand. "Maybe I'm wrong," he mused, "But it seems that the lady wasn't very interested in 'holding hands' as you put it. I was supposed to get through this without having to fight you, but since you forced the issue I had little choice. Not that it won't make this any less enjoyable. I've wanted to slap the stupid out of Bruiser there for the past hour, he complains so much."

"Suck my dick, ass-wipe!"

"Did you learn that line from your mother? You're not that lucky."

It was Hobo who spoke next, and carefully. "Wait," he said. "I know you. You look like… but you can't be. He died over half a year ago."

Tiny looked at Hobo and Bruiser, and when neither said anything, he asked, "Who?" It was the only word he had spoken all evening.

Hobo lowered his voice, as if saying it aloud would make it even truer. "Samson. Brock Samson."

Brock took another long, delicious drag from his cigarette, and slowly blew the smoke out. "Well," he said with a smirk, "At least one of you isn't a complete idiot."

"Shit." Hobo took a step backward. His gun was still pointed toward Brock, but his grip was shaky. "Not even Death himself can get the upper hand on you, can he?"

"You could put it that way, sure."

Bruiser fixed his grip on his gun. "I don't care who you think you are! You're about to be a dead man!" The air was loud with the silent tension. Brock continued to smoke, and no one was shooting.

"I'll tell you what, Bruiser," Brock said, pointing at him with the cigarette. "I'll give you one shot. No tricks. You get one chance to shoot me and kill me before I come over there and fillet you into tiny pieces." He spread out his arms, leaving his chest as a big, open target.

"Ha! You're a smug bastard. You think that skirting death once is going to make you invincible to a bullet through the heart?"

"I won't know until I give it a try, right?"

Bruiser chucked. "Well, Mr. Hero, it was nice knowing you."

Hobo looked back and forth from Bruiser to Brock. "Dude, I wouldn't…"

_CRACK—TING!_

The woman screamed from behind the containers and Brock calmly took another drag from his cigarette.

Bruiser stood, stammering, the smoke still fresh from his gun. "I… I don't understand! I hit you square in the chest! You must be wearing a vest!"

"I don't know," Tiny said. "I thought I heard metal. You sure you didn't miss?"

"I didn't miss!"

Brock took the cigarette from his mouth and smiled. "Too bad for you, Chihuahua. See, if you had been intelligent, you'd have kept shooting after the first bullet failed to kill me."

He flicked the cigarette butt at Bruiser's face. While the small man was distracted with burning flesh, Brock pulled his knife from his belt and leapt at him. Bruiser was dead before he hit the ground. As soon as he had flicked his cigarette, Hobo and Tiny had begun to shoot at him. In a blur of motion, Brock used the pommel of his knife to shatter Hobo's skull at the temple and the blade to cut Tiny across the eyes.

It wasn't another five second until they were all dead. These cheap-rate scumbags never stood an ice cube's chance in hell against him. He knelt down to Tiny's large corpse and used the man's clothing to clean his blade. The muffled sobs from behind the containers reminded him of the woman hiding behind them. He would have to wait a few more minutes before going through their pockets for clues; she was probably traumatized. Sheathing his knife, he walked back to where the woman was hiding.

She was sitting on the ground, her back against the trashcans, with her hands clutched to her ears and her head tucked as far between her knees as she could manage, trying desperately to make herself disappear. She rocked back and forth, and her skirt had fallen immodestly down to her hips, exposing her shapely, well-toned legs. She was trying to be quiet about her sobbing and her body was convulsing with the effort. She was dangerously close to hyperventilating.

Brock knelt next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She squeaked and flinched away, caving further into herself. "Please! God, please…" She whispered desperately.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. You're alright, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Uhhn…" Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at him. He couldn't see her well with the shadows and the mussed hair that was plastered to her tear soaked face, but her wide eyes were glistening with fear. She looked at him blankly for a moment. "You? But… but they shot you."

He smiled. "Trust me, lady, it takes more than a few bullets to put me down. Are you alright?"

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I think so." Her voice was still quiet, like she was afraid to talk, and her breathing continued to be ragged from crying. He offered a gloved hand to help her out and she shrank back from the blood that covered it.

"Ahh," he said. "Sorry about that." He removed the glove. The spot he had touched on her back a few seconds ago was also stained with blood; he decided not to mention it.

"Are they… did you…?" It was as far as she could bring herself to inquire about the condition of her harassers.

He nodded. "Yeah." She closed her eyes and released a shuttered breath. She didn't say anything for several long minutes, but she relaxed herself enough to control her breathing. Brock waited patiently, and when she seemed to have charge of herself he reached his blood free hand toward her. "Think you can stand?" She bit her lip and nodded, accepting his help. He pulled her to her feet and into the light, but her legs were so weak that they immediately gave way beneath her. She squeaked and clutched at him for support and he caught her gently but firmly by the waist.

She was not short, but she was small. Brock was maybe a head taller than her. Though he had noticed her red hair before, he saw now that her bangs were a brighter, more vibrant shade of red which made the rest of her hair appear brunette. Her form was as frail and dainty as her voice, but he could feel the muscles in her frame; either this lady worked out constantly to stay in shape or she was once involved in a highly active sport. She had a long, thin face that radiated with innocence and was dusted with a healthy dose of freckles. Her eyes were a dark hue of green framed with long, dark lashes, and her petite nose turned up slightly at the tip. If she wore makeup, she wore very little of it.

Brock had been with more women than he could remember, so when he immediately placed this woman as one of the most attractive ones he'd ever met, it meant something. Everywhere he went he attracted women like moths to a bright light, and he'd slept with nearly all of them, since most of them were loose trailer trash or prostitutes. But those women were usually very forward and confident, while this one carried herself like a deer caught in headlights. More than anything, he was struck by curiosity. By now, any other woman would have jumped him out of gratitude or sheer physical attraction, even in a situation like this, but she only looked at him with wet, frightened eyes. It was different, and weird. But, her features also played with his memory. Either he had seen this woman before or she greatly resembled someone else he knew whose identity he couldn't place for the life of him.

"Sorry," she said timidly, trying to regain her balance. She stepped away from him a little and nervously rubbed one of her arms, still working to calm herself down. Brock noted her familiar clothing: a dark skirt and white top, with a green short sleeve jacket that tied underneath her small chest. It was the new female barkeep attire at the Nighting Ale, his favorite bar. Not that he'd been there since he joined S.P.H.Y.N.X. He read her nametag: Felicia.

When Brock was sure she could stand on her own, he started searching through the men's clothing. "Would you mind telling me what you're doing on your own in a dark alley this late at night, Felicia?"

She crossed her arms timidly and looked down at her feet. "I was on my way to work and I was running late. My car is in the shop, so I have to walk. I thought I'd just take a shortcut…" She trailed off and looked at the bodies on the ground. "I heard several gunshots. How did all three of them miss you?"

"They didn't all miss." He absently reached up a gloved hand and picked at the bullet wound on his shoulder, wincing as searing hot pain flared down his arm. It was the shoulder with his unfinished Icarus tattoo. Damn.

Felicia looked at him anxiously. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Do I need to call someone?"

"I'll be alright. I've survived worse, believe me."

"Oh." She hugged herself and shivered.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. When had that car gotten there? He squinted at it for a while, waiting for someone to move inside, but couldn't see anyone through the tinted windows. He felt a little uneasy. He wanted to investigate, but he needed to get Felicia out of here before she became associated with whatever was supposed to have happened tonight. Hunter would give him an endless lecture if he let something happen to this innocent woman, and Brock didn't want to sit through another _"No women, no children!"_ rant.

"Come on, we need to get you out of here. I'll walk you to work."

* * *

Lieutenant Smith leaned back in his chair and slowly looked through each of the photos before him. In them he saw Brock Samson, who looked just like he did eight months ago when he disappeared: Tall and overly muscular in his chest and arms, with unnaturally small bird legs and his trademark mullet. It was like something out of a cartoon or comic book.

He didn't recognize the woman in the photos. He was sure that she was no more than an innocent stranger who happened to wander into the wrong place at the wrong time. But he did take note of Brock's expression in several of the photos where Brock was looking at her: curiosity and captivation. Brock was—how would his six year old daughter put it?—"twitterpated" with her; as much as a womanizer such as Brock Samson could be about a female, anyhow.

"Do we know who she is?" he asked the agent in front of him, without looking up from the photos.

The man pulled a tape from his pocket and set it on the desk. "Felicia. She just started midnight shifts at the Nighting Ale."

Lt. Smith nodded. "Now that our suspicions about Brock being alive have been confirmed, we need to find a way to keep him preoccupied. And, I think we may be able to use this girl. If you say he may have noticed you then he'll be expecting us to try getting to him through her. He may keep tabs on her for a while." He shuffled through a couple more photos. "Track her down. Pinpoint her home and watch her for the next couple weeks. One of my men will contact you when we are ready for any information you've gathered."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"Do you have any more to report?"

"Only that Brock killed the men you hired."

Smith waved his hand impatiently. "Unimportant. They completed the job I hired them for, whether or not they lived to talk about it. Anything else?"

"None, sir."

"Very well, you're dismissed. The secretary has your fees." Smith watched the man leave. When the door shut, he looked at the photos again and picked up the one that pictured Brock holding Felicia up as they looked at each other; his expression intrigued and hers captivated, just like every other woman who had ever laid eyes on the Venture family's former body guard. He knew that look and feeling well; it was how he felt and surely looked the first time he saw his wife. He could certainly use this encounter, and Felicia, to his advantage. "Don't let me down, Brock," he said to the photo. "My boss wants you out of the way when we target your beloved Venture family."

He collected all the photos and the audio tape and placed them in a manila envelope inside the locked drawer in his desk. Collecting his keys and briefcase, he turned off the lights, locked his office door and went home.


End file.
